


The Last Trip

by cincoflex



Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Coming of Age, Gen, Natural Disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: “For the record I’m sorry, buddy. I never intended for this to happen.”“You couldn’t control this happening,” I pointed out to him. “Even Mom knows that.”“She knows it, but she isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily,” Dad pointed out. “This is your mom we’re talking about. She takes everything personally.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to the Azteca Tacos series, and I would never have written it without the guidance and support of Vega_Voices and her never-failing enthusiasm. Thank you!

When I was thirteen, dad took me on a week-long trip with him to Las Vegas. Mom fretted about it but Dad assured her we’d be fine, and that his on-site investigative work about undocumented casino workers wasn’t dangerous. It was at the end of summer, so did my best not to give her any reason to make me stay home and when the time came she drove us to the airport, grumbling all the way.

“No revue shows,” she told dad. “No porn channels, no underage gambling or drinking, got it?”

“So smoking and hiring hookers is still fine then,” he shot back, grinning at her because he always knew exactly how to get her goat. “Come on, Murphy, it’s not Afghanistan. Vegas is family friendly now. Avery and I will have a great time.”

“Vegas can _call_ itself family-friendly but that’s a load of crap and we both know it,” she muttered under her breath. I knew she was mad because she couldn’t go with us; FYI was doing a retrospective that she’d been roped into narrating. Dad knew it too and tried to be nice.

“We’ll bring you back a good souvenir,” he promised. “Want your own Gold Nugget poker chips? Maybe an MGM Grand keychain?”

Mom just rolled her eyes.

At the concourse she spent a long time saying goodbye to dad while I looked the other way and tried not to make faces about it. Yeah yeah they loved each other; I got it. Usually they weren’t big on PDAs but if they had to get mushy I guess an airport’s a good place for it because nobody paid any attention. They were all too busy checking their flights or saying their own goodbyes.

When Mom was done with Dad she came over to me and hugged me before brushing my bangs back and looking up into my eyes. “Okay, I know you’re going to be good and I know you’re going to do what your dad says . . . but try to have fun anyway.”

“Mom . . .” I blushed and hugged her back. She did that bleak sort of face at us, but Dad blew her a kiss before she walked off, and we headed up to our gate to wait.

 

Las Vegas was . . . everything Washington wasn’t. Loud, colorful, busy every minute and a whole lot _hotter_. I stared at everything, not sure if I loved the place or not. It took getting used to, that was for sure, but within a day or two I got into it.

Dad checked us into Treasure Island, which was corny and cool at the same time. He gave me pocket money each morning, along with my notebook. “I expect three pages every day,” Dad told me. “If you’re serious about becoming a reporter, you need to observe and take notes. Go to different casinos; watch people; let me know what was interesting and we’ll talk about it over dinner.”

He’d go off to do his interviews and I’d tuck my Nokia in my pocket along with my card key and head out for the day. I was limited to walking distance on the Strip but I was fast and got to know the layout quickly. Saw so much: panhandlers, street performers, tourists from every place on the globe, people getting off work, people going to work. Amazing stuff. I still have my notebook in fact, full of commentary like, _‘The cocktail waitresses at the Bellagio are taller and hotter than the ones at Caesar’s Palace.’_

Hey, I was thirteen, okay?

Around five each night I’d be back at the room where Dad and I would share our days. I felt sorry for him, stuck doing interviews in kitchens and utility rooms but he reminded me that’s where his story was. After dinner we sometimes swam in the pool or went out through some of the fancier casino shopping malls together. Lots of women tried to hit on Dad but he always shoo’ed them away. A few tried to hit on me and that was embarrassing but Dad only ran interference when necessary. 

So by the time his story was done, I was a little sad to be leaving Las Vegas. It was the first major city I’d visited outside of DC, and I’d had a great time. When we got on the plane, Dad told me he had a surprise for me—we had a two day layover in New Orleans before we were heading home, so I’d be seeing a second city as well. I was thrilled, and even though the flight in was turbulent I didn’t care. 

We got into Louis Armstrong Airport on the late afternoon of the 26th of August and right away I knew something wasn’t right. Dad was watching the TV screens and the usual bustle around us was kind of tense. He led the way to a McDonald’s and got us burgers before telling me, “Ave, we may need to change our plans.”

“Why?”

“Because the storm that hit Florida a few days ago is now headed right here,” Dad muttered. “Damn it. There’s still a chance it will turn, but I’m not comfortable with the odds. Let’s see if we can get an early flight out.”

We couldn’t. Tried every airline down the row, and every one of them was either booked to the gills with dozens of people on standby or shutting down and you could see the tension everywhere. People looked . . . scared. I felt it radiating off them. Dad was on his phone most of the time and I caught scraps of his half of the conversations. Reassuring Mom. Asking for updates. Trying the bus lines, Amtrak, rental cars---everything.

“Shit.” Dad doesn’t curse much but I could tell he was stressed. “Fine. Let’s go check in and we’ll try again later.”

So we headed to the Marriott in the French Quarter. The rain had picked up and the driver was telling Dad that we would be his last fare and that we were crazy to be staying. When Dad pointed out we didn’t have a choice the driver gave a sad nod. “Yeah, right now it’s bad ev’where.”

The hotel was open but lots of people were checking out; when we asked for our room the clerk looked kind of surprised. We got one up on the eighth floor and once we got our luggage up, Dad took me down to the lobby again, to the little store there. “We’re buying everything we can carry,” he told me in a low voice. “Water, tuna, bread, peanut butter.”

His tone scared me, but he squeezed my shoulders and I nodded. After all Dad had been in rough situations before and I knew he’d take care of me. So I helped pick out stuff and I noticed how crowded the store was; I guess other people had the same idea. One guy was loading up on beer and told Dad he was planning on passing out before the storm hit.

When we got back upstairs, Dad told me to shower fast. He did after me, and then he rinsed the tub and filled it up to the brim, jamming the stopper down hard. “We may need the water.” 

Now I was getting worried, but Dad told me to order whatever I wanted from room service while he called Mom again. I ordered pizza and chicken while listening to Dad pace while he got one word in every now and then with Mom. Finally he handed the phone to me and I could barely hear her over the static.

“I’m fine, Mom, really. Dad’s right here,” I told her.

“You do what he says, Avery. You hear me?” she shouted. “Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous!”

“I won’t!” I promised her. “We’ll be fine!”

“You’d better be!” and then the line cut out.

I tried shaking the phone but Dad took it and sighed as he plugged it into the charger. “She is _pissed_.”

“Yeah. But Dad, we didn’t know about the storm,” I pointed out. “Or that it was going to come this way.”

“True, but it doesn’t make any difference,” Dad replied. “Your mom’s scared and you know how she hates being scared so she gets mad instead.”

I nodded. Mom was absolutely like that and always had been. I wondered if FYI was going to cover the storm and went to turn on the TV. All the channels had coverage with fancy projection maps and forecasts that put us right in the path of Katrina. It didn’t look good at ALL.

Dad went over to the window and checked it.

“Should we open them?”

“No,” he told me. “We need to seal them, make the surface of the building as flat as possible. Avery, the power is going to go out at some point. Just so you know.”

I nodded. 

Dad made us pull the mattresses off the twin beds and put them on the carpet between the two box springs, like a fort. “Just to be on the safe side,” he assured me as we sat on them with our dinner. The wind outside was already gusting hard and I didn’t have much of an appetite, but Dad made me eat before we put the rest of the food in the mini-fridge. After that we went out.

“The door locks work on batteries, so even when the power goes out we can lock and unlock our room,” Dad assured me. “Let’s find the stairwell.”

The stairs were in the middle of the hall in the alcove between the laundry room and the vending machines. Dad opened the door and looked at the landing. “Okay, so we’ve got a way out and down, and if it comes to it, a spot safer than the room.”

“Are we going to sleep in the stairwell?” I wanted to know. 

“I hope not, but we may have to,” Dad sighed. He turned to me and gave me a quick hug that I appreciated. “For the record I’m sorry, buddy. I never intended for this to happen.”

“You couldn’t control this happening,” I pointed out to him. “Even Mom knows that.”

“She knows it, but she isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily,” Dad pointed out. “This is your mom we’re talking about. She takes everything personally.”

I laughed because it was true. We took the elevator down to the lobby and talked to the concierge, who looked dead tired.

“We have generators for the kitchen and the service elevator,” he told Dad as reassuringly as he could. “And the entire building is up to code.”

“Any chance of a taxi?”

The man shook his head. “Sir, even I can’t get a ride out of here. We’re all at the Marriott for the duration.”

Dad nodded, and looked around the lobby. I knew that stare—he was sizing up potential interviews, probably not even aware of it. Sheer force of habit with him, even if he didn’t have a cameraman or any official set-up. I pulled out my notebook and waited.  
Finally Dad sauntered over to a guy sitting on a suitcase by the front doors and spoke to him. The guy looked up, after a minute held out a wallet full of family photos and Dad was off, squatting next to him, asking questions and nodding at the answers. I went over to one of the other chairs and wrote up what I was watching. Added stuff about the weather and what the lobby looked like, and then by the time Dad was done it was getting dark outside, so we took the elevator up, and I noticed he was uneasy.

“Don’t want us to get trapped in here,” Dad pointed out. I hadn’t thought of that but before I could freak out, we reached our floor. As we got out, Dad sighed. “From now on we take the stairs, ugh.”

We slept on the floor between the two beds, and even though there wasn’t much room at least I felt protected. Dad told me about how he and Mom had faced a hurricane in Florida together and what was probably going to happen to us. “We’ll be stuck here until the local authorities or the National Guard come and evacuates us out. We’ve got dry shelter, food and water so we’re gonna be okay, Avery. What we’ll mostly be, is bored.”

“Mom’s going to have kittens,” I predicted. “Both because we’re here and because she’s missing the story.”

“True,” Dad agreed. “But my first job is to keep you safe, so we’re not doing anything stupid or heroic, right?”

I listened to the wind howl outside and agreed. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

Dad didn’t answer right away, and before he could, we heard the power go out all throughout the building with a sort of sighing whine.

“A while,” he finally sighed. “Get some sleep.”

It took a long time for me to drop off.

 

The next day was worse. The sky was a weird yellow color and Paul, the concierge told us that the hurricane was expected to hit within twelve hours. It was hot without the AC and I couldn’t stay still. Dad told me we could climb the stairs to the terrace on the tenth floor to take a look but only if we took our time. 

From up there you could see the river and it looked grey and sludgy. The windows rattled when the windgusts hit them and Dad made me stand back from them as we watched rain going almost sideways from the south.

“We’ve got a room facing west,” he told me. “A lot safer than north or south. Come on Avery; I don’t want to be here if these windows blow.”

I saw every street filled with cars that weren’t moving, and people were yelling in angry scared voices, honking horns and in some places getting into fights. Dad waved me away, putting an arm around my shoulders.

“People are scared. When they’re scared they get stupid and dangerous,” He reminded me quietly. “They fight, they say and do shit they’d never do in normal times. You can’t take anything personally, okay?”

I nodded. “It’s scary though.”

Dad agreed. “Yeah. Not the best side of humanity coming out. Let’s go back to the room and see if we can call your mom.”

We tried to get through but couldn’t even get a dial tone. Dad checked that I had Mom’s number memorized and reminded me if I got any chance at all to call I should. Then he showed me how to flush the toilet with water from the empty ice bucket.

“With the power out, the water pressure drops,” he told me. “Gravity and a little water does the trick.”

There was a knock on our door; Paul was there, out of breath. “There’s a reporter down in the lobby,” he puffed, “asking about you.”

Dad and I scrambled down the stairs, and when we got to the lobby, Dad spotted the guy in the weird light blue suit, waving a straw hat to fan himself. He looked like he could be Grandpa Bill’s twin. 

“Carl? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Following a cryptid lead I deeply regret,” the guy responded, looking around. “Love to catch up, Pete but I hear there’s a hurricane on the way. Are you and the boy riding it out? Should I tell Murphy anything?”

“Yeah we’re staying here,” Dad told him. “And if you can get through to Murphy . . . .”

The man called Carl nodded. “Marriott, French Quarter, Canal Street. What floor?”

“Eighth. How are you getting out?” 

“Ambulance,” the man replied with a sad smile. “Sometimes it pays to have a nurse for a girlfriend. We do have room for one more . . .”

Dad looked at me but I shook my head. “No. I’m staying _with_ you. I don’t have any money or ID or numbers other than yours and Mom’s.”

“Practical. And loyal,” the man murmured. “Good kid.”

Dad slipped an arm around my shoulders. “The best. Okay, if you can pass on that info Carl, I’d appreciate it. Good luck getting out.”

“Good luck hunkering down,” the man replied. “It’s going to be bad, Pete. Get extra mattresses if you can.”

They nodded at each other and the man left, clamping a hand on his head to hold his straw hat down. Dad watched him go and sighed. “He used to be one of the best journalists back when I was in high school,” he told me quietly, “until the monsters got him.”

 

It hit that night about two AM. One minute I was asleep and the next, this God-awful whine shook the building, waking me up with a jolt. Dad grabbed me and I hung onto him in the dark.

“That’s the wall,” he shouted. “Your ears are gonna pop.”

They did and I swallowed, feeling terrified. It’s one thing to be doing all the preparations and another thing to have the storm actually HIT. The rumble didn’t stop, and I hear breaking glass, but it wasn’t in our room, it was way above us. It felt like a train was hitting the hotel; like we were in the middle of 911.

I cried. I know I sound like a wuss admitting it but I did. I hung onto Dad and he held me tight, telling me we were going to be okay as we lay there between the beds with all the covers and one of the mattresses over us like a fort. The wind and the rain pounded and to this day I can’t hear the sound of a hard storm without getting panicky and breathless. 

The raw power of a hurricane is petrifying beyond belief and imagination.

Dad prayed in a low voice and I joined in on the ones I knew; mostly the Lord’s Prayer. We didn’t go to church often but every now and then I’d go with him to St. Stephen-Martyr on Pennsylvania Avenue. Usually on the holidays and we’d stay in the back. Mom always teased him about having a crush on the Virgin Mary, and Dad always told her he’d converted to blondes.

Eventually I dozed off, still hanging onto Dad, too exhausted to stay awake. A few hours later, right before dawn I jolted up, needing to go to the bathroom. The building was still shaking and I heard water. Dad was awake too. “Sounds like one of the levees gave way,” he told me. “We’re high enough we won’t get flooded, but I bet the lobby is a mess.”

I went to pee and when I came back Dad had pulled back a drape and was looking outside. The light was dark gray but I could see water all right, and it was pushing around the cars on the street, rushing fast and rising. I must have whimpered because Dad put his arm around me again. “We’re in the safest zone of the building,” he reminded me. “High enough to miss the flood; low enough to miss the wind.”

“We’re trapped,” I tried not to whine. Dad had been through a lot worse and here I was being a baby but I . . . was scared.

“We’re holed up,” Dad corrected me with a squeeze. “Come on, let’s make some peanut butter sandwiches.”


	2. Chapter 2

That day was awful. Dad and I wrote in our journals and tried to ignore the wind and the rain but it was impossible; the sound of it was always there. I got to the point where I was too worked up to sit down, so Dad took me out into the hall and told me to run the length of it and back.

I looked at him like he was crazy, but he had this grin on his face. “I’ll time you,” Dad told me. “Go three times. We’ll get an average and if you can beat it by fifteen seconds after that . . . I’ll get you one of those fat-tire bikes you want so much.”

He had me. I’d been bugging Mom about getting Pugsley for over a year; even offered to save up and pay for half of it myself so I was definitely invested now. I stared at him. “Promise?”

“Promise . . . but you have to beat your best time,” Dad reminded me.

So I ran. I’d always been pretty fast. I raced that hallway three good times and on the fourth I let it rip, running all out, reaching the end, pivoting and charging back to Dad at full tilt, running past him as he hit the stop on his watch. We figured my average down and back was about fifty-eight seconds, so I had to hit forty-three seconds to get that bike and damn I worked for it.

‘Course I was out of breath, but I was also out of fidgets too, and I loped back towards him, keeping my eyes on his face. Dad looked serious.

“Damn. Looks like I’m gonna owe you a bike,” he muttered and held up the watch, his face shifting to a grin. “That last one was thirty-seven seconds, Ave!”

We high-fived each other and heard someone coming out from a room a few doors down—the guy who’d bought all the booze down at the store. He staggered a bit. “Oh. Thought you w’ room service,” he slurred and went back into his room, slamming the door.

“He’s gonna have a long wait,” I pointed out. “Can I go down and see if the lobby is flooded?”

“We’ll both go,” Dad told me. “And slowly.”

So we headed down and the closer we got to the ground floor the more we could hear the water. By the time we reached the second floor landing I could smell it too, along with mud. Dad made me slow down and look over the rail; the water was five steps high from the ground and rising.

“Shit,” I said, and then, “Oops.”

“It’s okay; shit is right,” Dad sighed. “That’s three feet and it’s still coming up. We’re close to the levee and this pretty much confirms it’s coming over the top or maybe it’s broken through. Either way, we’re not going down there.”

“What about the hotel people?” I wanted to know.  
Dad pointed up. “They’re probably a couple of floors up if they’re still here. If we check each floor we can figure out who’s here with us.”

So we did, climbing the stairs and calling down the halls. We found an old couple on the third floor, and Paul the concierge along with some of the kitchen staff on the fourth, and two French tourists on the fifth, who asked Dad a lot of questions he couldn’t answer.

When we got back to our floor, Dad told me we needed to rest. “Things look like they’re calming down but it’s just the eye,” he warned me. “The back end is coming soon.”

There was water dripping near the windows, soaking the carpet there. Dad wadded towels to stop it and we flopped out on the mattress, stretching out.  
I was desperate for a distraction, so I asked him, “Do you think Mom’s reporting on the storm?”

“Probably,” Dad laughed and gave a cough. “FYI will probably try to send your uncle Frank out, and put Corky on because she can give it the local color about swamps and gators.”

“Gators---”

“They’re not going to be in the floodwaters, Ave—they’re holed up, so don’t worry about them.”

“I wish . . .” I started and then stopped. Wishing was kind of pointless right now.

Dad made a little affirming sound. “Me too. A radio would be great, and some air conditioning.” He coughed again. “Humidity isn’t helping my sinuses.”

We slept.

By midnight the back part hit and we definitely heard glass breaking again, along with water that was MUCH louder. I curled up as tightly as I could, trying not to let the wind give me the heebie jeebies. We also heard screaming because the drunk guy was trying to tip over one of the vending machines.

“Need food!” he was yelling. Dad got up and helped him because later he came back with bags of Cheetos and Mounds bars for me.

“Normally I wouldn’t condone vandalism or theft,” he tiredly told me. “But we’re in a tough situation.”

So we had chips with our sandwiches. 

After two days Dad and I climbed to the terrace and looked out. The sun was shining, but the view . . . it looked like a bomb had taken out New Orleans. I hadn’t seen much of it when we got here but even I knew what a city was supposed to look like and this . . . 

Dad put his arm around me. “Devastation. Now’s the time to write about what you see, Avery. If you’re serious about reporting . . . a story doesn’t get any bigger than this.”

I tried. I really did but it seemed too big to get onto paper. The smell alone—water and rot and mold and shit mostly. The heat pressing down on us, even in the shade. The quiet, interrupted by yells and sloshing water and from far away, sirens. I scribbled down what I could, wiping my eyes every now and then.

I saw a dead body. It was floating past some of the flooded cars, just drifting face-down, bumping into things as it did. The shock just froze me at the window and when it finally glided out of sight I was too stunned to call Dad over.

He was coughing again. “First a hurricane and now a cold,” he griped, trying to grin. “Just what we need.”

“Dry socks. Mom always says the first step in getting over a cold is dry socks.” I still had a few pairs and handed one of them over. Both of us were getting a little ripe—we couldn’t bathe or shower right now—but Dad made sure we at least changed our underwear and brushed our teeth. He was getting a beard too. The water in the tub was stale but we still had a lot of it, so we weren’t thirsty, but we were getting low on food.

 

Some of the other guests started meeting up in the fourth floor hallway—one of them had a battery operated radio, so we got some news, finally. It wasn’t very good, and most of the grown-ups looked worried.

“We need something on the roof,” one of the staff suggested. “We can put up a bedsheet with ‘help’ on it.”

I got recruited for that while Dad took a nap, so I helped write it on a sheet with some shoe polish. Paul and I took it up to the top of the building and let me tell you, climbing thirty stories by stairs sucks. We didn’t rush it, but it wasn’t much fun even going slow. When we reached the top Paul unlocked the roof access and a ton of water poured down the stairs at our feet.

We got outside and damn—if I thought the view was bad from the terrace, this was even worse. Paul looked like he might throw up.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he said and I didn’t blame him. For long bleak minutes we stood there looking at the destruction before he finally turned away, wiping his eyes. “Okay, come on; we got to get out of here.”

I shimmied up the cell tower and pulled a corner of the sheet up, tying it around one of the foot hooks. Paul did the same below me but it hung limply, so we took it down and laid it flat out on the roof instead. There had been a few planes and I know I heard helicopters so maybe someone would see it, eventually.

 

A day later, we got rescued. The water was still pretty high, but some National Guards in a flatboat motored up to the lobby and called to us with bullhorns. Dad told me we’d have to leave most of our stuff, but we sealed our wallets and journals into some of the hotel plastic bags and tucked them in our shirts. Dad’s cold wasn’t much better but he and Paul made sure everyone else got loaded in the boat first before they waded out to us. 

He slipped under, which scared the shit out of me, and then bobbed right back up, swimming out to us. I helped haul him in, wanting to yell, but instead Dad grinned at me, shaking the water from his hair. 

“Thought a gator got me?”

“Not _funny_ Dad,” I growled, but I hugged him anyway, hearing him wheeze a little as he shivered.

It took two days to get home. A lot of waiting, finally getting through to Mom, who kept telling us how the two of us were never being allowed out of her sight again, and then a flight out of Baton Rouge to Ronald Reagan in Crystal City. We got in late, and Dad was pretty exhausted, walking slowly out of the terminal, his arm around me. He’d slept for most of the flight and he’d been taking a lot of Motrin between his coughing and wheezing. 

But he smiled a lot too and I could tell he was glad to be home. 

Mom was at the terminal running towards us and slammed us in a three-way hug that kind of squeezed the air out of me. I didn’t care. I was SO glad to see her even though I knew I stunk and everything. She was trying not to cry, making it all sort of a grumble. “God Avery, honey. Petey . . . Oh _damn_ ,” and she did lose it a little, hanging onto Dad while I sniffled. 

“Love you,” Dad told her quietly. “Avery was _the_ best . . .” then he started coughing again. 

Mom stared at him. “You’re sick.” 

“I went through a hurricane,” Dad pointed out testily. 

“Home,” Mom told us. “Baths, meds, and bed for both of you.” 

Man, home. You never know how much you miss a place until you haven’t been there a while. I took a bath and scrubbed every last bit of New Orleans out of my hair. Got in my pajamas and was about to climb into bed when I heard a ‘thump’ from the other bedroom, and then Mom yelling. “Peter? PETER?!” 

The ambulance ride was fast. 

Mom and I followed the stretcher into the Emergency Room, past all the curtained alcoves and she was trying to answer questions while hanging onto Dad’s hand. He was sort of conscious but really pale, and the EMTs were talking to him, trying to keep him alert. We ended up in one of the bays and I pressed myself against the wall, staying out of the way because I wasn’t going anywhere else. 

Nurses came. One put an IV into Dad’s arm, another one started asking Mom questions about his medical history. The whole time I was quiet, but Mom handed me her phone and murmured, “Call Uncle Frank.” 

“Mom—” 

“Avery, I need him to cover for me tomorrow,” she told me and I nodded. 

Uncle Frank picked up after the third ring and I told him where we were; he said he’d be right there and hung up. I came closer and took Dad’s free hand—the one Mom wasn’t holding. His fingers were hot but he gave me a squeeze. 

“Still . . . still owe you a bike,” he rasped, rolling his head to look at me over the oxygen mask on his face. 

I was trying not to cry but I could feel my eyes filling up. “It’s okay.” 

“No . . .” he coughed and this time there was blood on his lower lip, “You won it fair and square.” 

“Shhhhh,” Mom told him. “Just . . . rest, Peter.” 

Hours went by. Dad went for tests, and then got a room. We went up to it and Mom camped on the edge of his bed. Doctors came and talked to her in quiet voices but I could hear them telling her things like aggressive bacterial pneumonia, and prior lung abscesses. 

“Abscesses? _How_?” Mom demanded. And then there was talk about all the dangerous places Dad had been in the last few years; about lung damage from soil-based fungus and his years as a former smoker . . . it sounded worse and worse. 

Mom finally asked _the_ question, and they wouldn’t answer it. The doctor just told her they were doing all they could. 

That’s when I realized what was happening. 

I went into the bathroom of dad’s room, turned the light out, and cried, muffling it in a towel. Washed my face and came out again. Uncle Frank was there and Mom was holding Dad’s hand, talking to him. “No, you’re going to get better. That’s all there _is_ to it, Petey.” 

Uncle Frank put an arm around me. “Let’s go find the nearest vending machine, Ave.” 

I didn’t want to go, but I also knew they needed some privacy so I nodded. Frank and I walked to the elevator and went to the hospital lobby. A few times he tried to say something, but stopped himself. I guess the look on my face said it all. 

We found a little food court and he got coffee for himself and Mom. I listlessly got a Mounds bar and shoved it in my pocket. 

“Avery . . .” Frank began. 

I looked at him. “It’s okay. I know Dad’s dying. I mean that’s _not_ okay but . . . it’s going to happen. I know.” 

And right there, in the hallway back to the elevator, Frank started to cry. He just sort of crumbled, and I put my arms around him, holding him because we needed it. 

I knew he and Dad didn’t always get along, and that it was because they both loved Mom. I knew Uncle Frank wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be, and that he was hurting not only for Mom and me but also because he liked Dad, and knew what Dad meant to us. 

Finally Frank drew in a deep breath and kissed the top of my head. “Th-thanks kid.” 

I took one of the coffees from him and held his hand, which was warm from the cup. I squeezed it. 

Hours went by. Dad . . . didn’t get better. He sort of slept, and the nurses came to change his IV and stuff. Mom curled up on the chair, one hand on him all the time. Sometimes they talked when she thought I was asleep over on the sofa. 

“I don’t want to go, babe,” Dad told her again. “But . . . not a choice here. Believe me, I planned this a _lot_ different—“ he coughed, “differently.” 

“Me too,” Mom told him. “Damn it. I wanted more _time_!” 

__

__

“I wanted . . .” Dad wheezed, “More sex.” 

I tried not to laugh. Mom groaned. “Say something else so those _aren’t_ your last words.” 

“Thought . . . they were pretty good,” Dad protested weakly. “’kay. Love you. I need . . . you to be there . . . for Avery. Needs you.” 

Mom shot me a glance; I pretended to be asleep. “You know I will.” 

“Cremation,” Dad rasped. “Niche in St. Stephen-Martyr. Paid for.” 

“Okay,” Mom agreed. I knew she was starting to cry because her voice got trembly. She wasn’t teasing him about his Catholicism. 

Not fighting the truth anymore. 

“Hate this,” he rumbled, coughing hard again, and Mom wiped his mouth. “Putting you . . . through . . .” 

“Shut up,” Mom told him lovingly. “Petey, you and Avery lived through Hurricane Katrina. You brought him home safely—I’ll never forget that, lover.” 

He chuckled. 

When Mom left a while later I went and sat with Dad. 

He looked over at me and I saw how white he was, how gaunt. “Ave. Ave, it’s . . . not looking good,” he whispered to me. 

“I know,” I told him, and bit my lips hard. “I love you, Dad.” 

He smiled, moving his hand slowly, looking for mine. I took it and squeezed it hard. “Love you too. So glad . . . you’re my son.” 

A few hours later he died. Mom was holding his hand, and I was sort of dozing on the other side of the bed. It was so quiet. Just a breath and a slow exhale. The heart monitor went into a long beep and within a few seconds the nurse and orderly were in, looking him over. Mom shook her head and one of them turned the monitor off. The doctor came in and took Dad’s wrist, looking up at the clock in the room. 

“Two-fifteen,” he murmured and set Dad’s arm down. He looked at the nurses, who nodded and stepped out, then looked at us. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Mom didn’t look up at him; she was looking at Dad, her face all wet. “Me too. Oh _God_ , me too.” 

So I missed the first month of school while Mom and I arranged for the funeral and had Dad interred in St. Stephen-Martyr. We hugged a lot, and Mom barely slept. I worried about her, and I tried to take care of her but it was hard on both of us, even with everyone checking in. 

And then we found the journals. 

Tucked away with Dad’s will were two notebook journals . . . one addressed to Mom and one to me. I took mine and opened it. Seeing Dad’s familiar bold printing made me tear up, but I wiped my eyes and read the first lines. 

_Today is October 11th, 2001. Hi, Avery. A month ago, terrorists attacked within four miles of our house and I realized how easy it is to lose people. I don’t want you or your mom to forget how much I love you. So, love you, Dad._

The next entry was: _October 12th. Avery, last week you told me you wanted to be a doctor. Good career choice. At your age I wanted to be a pilot. Then I found out you needed to take a lot of math for that, so I became a journalist. Love you, Dad._

They went on. Sometimes a single line, sometimes a paragraph, but I could hear him in the words. Jokes, advice, observations, and in all of it, love. I flipped through and saw that he’d written something for me to read for the next four years, and I had to jump to the last page. It said: _We’re going to Las Vegas tomorrow. Despite what your Mom says, I’ll teach you how to play Texas Hold’em because every good journalist needs to know poker. Odds are our business, right? love you, Dad._

Mom looked up from her journal and she was crying but I could see it was the good sort of crying. She sniffled and pressed the book to her chest before tossing her hair out of her face. “Damn it.” 

“Mom—” I came over to her and she slipped an arm around me. 

“It’s okay,” she told me and kissed my temple. “It’s just . . . SO like your dad to do something like this. God. Makes me want to yell at him . . .” 

“--Even when you’re kissing him,” I grinned. 

Mom laughed. First time since we’d left for Las Vegas. “Yeah,” she admitted, wiping her eyes. “Exactly. Everything that _ever_ infuriated me about him also . . . made me love him.” 

I hugged her. “You’re just mad because now he officially has the last word.” 

“Who’s side are you on?” Mom demanded, but she hugged me back. “So . . . didn’t your dad say something about owing you a bike?” 

I got my bike. 

And I decided I really did want to be a reporter. 


End file.
